


Double Booked

by An_Ode



Series: The Mandalorian Taxi Service [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry, Medical Care, Much Cursing, No baby yoda YET, Non-sexual leg straddling, Pre-Series, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, but i'm also not, making shit up about space, the great purge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23984806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_Ode/pseuds/An_Ode
Summary: “I don’t take orders from you.”“You want a ride, you take my orders.”“I didn’t want a ride; I HAD a ride. If anything, you should be taking orders from me!”-OR-You already have a ride, but the gaping wound in your regular taxi driver's side has you ship hopping before midday.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: The Mandalorian Taxi Service [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711711
Comments: 30
Kudos: 223





	Double Booked

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU to everyone who has been so kriffing positive in their feedback and comments, y'all make me giddy.

The galaxy is massive. Millions of planets separated by millions of parsecs. And every planet was unique and wide spread. Cities and villages, vast forests and sprawling deserts, occupied by thousands, if not millions of inhabitants. The odds of bumping into someone at random were slim to none, not unless you were looking for them.

Which, for once, you totally weren’t.

The Mid-Rim planet, whose name you’d already forgotten, was a stop on the trade ship’s route to the Outer Rim. A longer stop over because apparently there was a great cantina in town that sold cheap alcohol and even cheaper company. You can't contain your grimace.

You’d been traveling with this particular ship for a few cycles, their route never deviating until now. They are a rowdy bunch, but nothing you can’t handle. Despite your distaste for their _vivid_ storytelling, you don’t mind getting out of the ship and stretching your legs, perhaps finding a market in town.

Looking down, you grimace at what you find. The tunic was a lost cause, mud and chili sauce stains impossible to get out. How those stains got there is a story you’d like to forget. Shuttering at the memory, you shake your head to clear it before setting out to follow the distant sounds of a milling crowd. 

The mild weather is nice, sun marred by clouds but not too chilly. You walk lazily down the stalls in the market, eyes catching on a tunic in muted green. The color reminds you of the mossy trees you’d tried to draw but could never capture during your time with the Sages.

You’ve just paid for the item when the screaming starts.

Whipping around, you see the crowd scattering, blaster smoke in the air. Shoving the new buy into your bag, you creep around the edges of the stalls, hand sliding around to the small holster at your back. The weight of metal in your hands is relatively new, but still makes something calm in your chest. The gift is keeping you armed, which… you probably should’ve been since day one. Better late than never you suppose.

Pressed firmly to a free-standing building, you peer over your shoulder to see the cantina your traders were heading to has become a war zone. A group of four or five Klatooinian are clustered behind an overturned table taking shots at… something.

“Die you cowardly fuck!” Your eyes widen when you see a small explosive in his hand just before he lobs it out the cantina’s broken windows. Spinning back around, you cover your head just as an echoing _boom_ rattles the building you’re hiding behind. You take a moment before peeking out from behind the wall again.

Even through the slight ringing in your ears, you hear more shouts, blaster fire, and see… was that bright red tinge, _fire_? You creep out from your hiding place, surveying the area for anyone caught in the crossfire when the dim light catches something shiny ahead of you.

“I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold.” A modulated voice proclaims, and you freeze in your tracks.

“You’ll have to kil–” the sound of a metal connecting with flesh echoes out and then silence. Apparently the fights over.

Knife still in hand, you walk cautiously forward, the Mandalorian’s back to you as he hauls the unconscious bounty out from behind an upturned table. It’s, surprisingly, not this that grabs your attention. When he gets halfway out of the door, he stumbles. You move a little faster, reaching him just as he leans to the side. He must be badly injured because he doesn’t immediately pull a blaster on you. 

“Hey there driver,” you greet, sliding your knife back into the sheath at your back, hands catching him around the shoulders and waist.

“ _Phwoar_ ,” he grits out and you cock your head.

“Not sure what that means, but it sounds like an expletive.”

He turns his visor towards you, the tenseness in his body loosening somewhat as he seems to recognize the snark. As if to prove the point further, he leans heavily into you, causing you to staggered a bit at the weight.

“What’re you doing here?” The question is a little slurred and you feel the concern ratchet up a hundred-fold.

“A pitstop on the trade route my ride is traveling on.”

“Could’ve called me,” he says, and you smile.

“Afraid you were busy,” taking a deliberate look around before resettling on his face with a raised brow, you continue, “looks like.”

He only huffs, an arm readjusting so it’s over your shoulders, the other still gripping the shirt collar of his bounty. You look down at the passed out Klatooinian and then do a sweep of the Mandalorian.

“I can’t drag you both back to the _Crest_.” His annoyed snarl has you raising an indignant brow. “Or I could drag _neither_ of you back to the Crest.”

“I… I can walk.” You scoff. “Will you drag him?”

You consider him, eyes narrowed at the request. Your gut instinct is a rousing _fuck no_. The idea of dragging his mark behind you while the Mandalorian limps beside you is not your idea of a good time.

“What’d he do?” you ask curtly.

“What?”

“What was the puck for?”

“Bail jumper. Spice smuggling and assault.”

“How far is the _Crest?”_

“Hanger bay 4, a couple blocks over.” Just as he points in the right direction, you hear distant shouting. “He, uh, has more friends I think.”

“You _kriffing think_?” You bite out, heart rate kicking up at the implications. “We need to move. Lead the way gimpy.”

Without fanfare he spins on his heel, stumbles, and heads in the direction of his ship. Swinging your bag around to rest against your back and out of your way, you look down at the bounty laying supine in the dirt. This is going to fucking suck isn’t it?

You lean down, muttering multiple curses under your breath, and grab hold of the Klatooinian’s wrists. Using the strength in your legs, you heft him up a little and proceed to shuffle backwards. A glance over your shoulder to see where the shiny one went and you’re off.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs out when you shoot him a dubious look. His body listing this way and that, the walls on either side of the alley keeping him upright as you make your way back towards the hanger bay.

“I didn’t–” _huff_ “–say anything,” you can’t help the grunt at the dead weight you’re dragging.

The shouts are getting louder, shuffling footsteps getting closer and you’ve never been so over a day like you are today. A glance at the sky tells you it’s not even mid-day and you want to cry. At least you got a nice tunic, and you had everything you owned shoved into the bag around your body. Could be worse. Blessedly, the _Crest_ comes into view just as the strength in your arms begins to wane. You need to work out more.

The ship opens up after some sloppy movements from the Mandalorian, and you almost whine at the thought of dragging the bounty up the ramp.

“Leave him at the bottom, it’ll lift and roll him inside.”

You do as instructed, dropping his wrists when you’ve got him on the metal ramp. A little sluggishly you stagger up the ramp just as it begins to lift. Squawking as the ground shifts below your feet you jump the final few meters onto solid ground before a noisy _thump_ lets you know the bounty also made it in. Spinning to send a fierce glare the Mandalorian's way you find he’s already halfway up the ladder.

Plopping down on one of the crates in the hull, you hear the engines roar to life just as the sound of blaster fire pinging off the ship echoes in the hull. You’re too tired to care, the adrenaline of the short fight and subsequent weightlifting leeching out of you in seconds. You roll your head until it’s leaning against the cool metal of the wall, eyes focused on your unconscious companion.

The ship shakes and lets out a small groan that makes your eyes widen in concern, before smoothing back out. The pinging fire from his supposed friends outside grows distant, and you lift your hand, digging fingers into the tight coil of tension in your shoulders. Moaning quietly you know the knot will keep you awake tonight.

For a brief moment, your mind goes to the trade ship you’ve abandoned. How pissed would they be that you skipped out on paying them the second half of your voyage? Your eyes fly open, were they even _alive_? The cantina was pretty much fucked by the time you caught a falling Mandalorian. A snort escapes as the scene plays out like a bad romance novel in your head.

Your hands slide down your thighs, the chill settling into your skin. The Mandalorian must have gotten you out of the atmosphere. Just as you consider trying to contact your first ride, the sound of someone descending into the hull distracts you. 

The metal man clanks down the ladder, movements clumsy and you wonder if that’s how you would move all the time, piled with all that padding and metal. When he reaches the bottom with both feet planted firmly on the floor, he leans his helmed forehead against the rungs. A deep sigh shaky around the edges hisses through the modulator.

“I need to carbonize him,” he mutters.

“No idea,” you say when he doesn’t elaborate.

Pushing off his resting place, he stumbles towards the quarry, making you rise to assist.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a liar.”

“ _No,_ I’m a bounty hunter.”

“You’re on a roll,” you grouse back, and he pauses his trek to look back at you.

“Help me get him up?”

“Do I get a cut for all this heavy lifting, Mandalorian?” The question slips out, half joking half serious, as you lean down to help haul his bounty up and shove him into the nook in the wall he indicates to. It’s over in a second, bronze steam encasing the troublesome Klatooinian in carbonite. You don’t have time to celebrate the victory, what with the Mandalorian basically collapsing to the floor.

“I… I’m fine,” he mumbles. You ignore him entirely, slipping your arms under his and haul him up to the crate you’d been resting on. The beskar and durasteel is heavy and you’re winded once more. You fucking hate this day.

“You wanna tell me where you’re injured or should I just poke you until you yelp?” you deadpan, eyes scanning him for injury.

“I don’t _yelp_.”

A high-pitched yelp echoes in the hull.

“The _kriff_ was that?” he growls.

“A yelp.” You retract the hand you’d used to poke at the bit of blood on his torso between armor plates.

“This your idea of helping?”

“No, this is my idea of assessment. Then comes the helping. You wanna pull that up?” you’re gesturing to the under shirt he’s wearing, but he bristles none the less.

“I can handle it.”

“I’m not asking you to take the beskar off, Mandalorian. Just lift the undershirt enough so I can see what happened.”

“No.” You’re not sure what your face is doing, but it must showcase your annoyed incredulousness, because he goes on. “I’ll handle it. Go to the cockpit.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“You want a ride, you take my orders.”

“I didn’t want a ride; I HAD a ride. If anything, you should be taking orders from me!”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you wouldn’t have gotten off that planet alive and with your bounty if I hadn’t dragged his unconscious ass twelve blocks,” you argue, arms crossing over your chest, a hip cocked.

“I would’ve managed.”

“Ah yes, of course. How could I have misread the walking like a drunkard and falling into walls.”

“And it wasn’t twelve blocks!” he backtracks, and you see him sway even more, hand landing on the crate’s edge to keep himself upright.

“Lift your fucking shirt, Mando.” He cocks his head and you realize the connotations of words like that.

While he considers you, stare heated, you spin on your heel. You hadn’t spent much time down in the hull other than boarding and deboarding and using the fresher, always up in the cockpit during your stays on the _Crest_. The place is small and surprisingly messy.

Somehow that doesn’t track with the picture of him floating around in your head: Sharp corners on his bunk, everything in place, the strict self-discipline of a militant upbringing. A personality quirk, maybe? Or had he shirked his culture deliberately? You dismiss that theory out of hand. Where the fuck does he keep medical supplies?

“You’ve never called me that before.” You don’t look at him, still trying to divine where he would keep the bacta spray or cauterizer. It takes you a moment to process his words.

“That’s because it’s often used as an insult, which I find disrespectful.”

“But you used it now.”

“Because you’re pissing me off,” you say simply, focus on the wall units which you have no idea how to open. “Where do you keep the bacta spray?”

“Out.”

“Cauterizer?” You settle on, though it wouldn’t be ideal. It would also hurt like a bitch. Maybe he’d yelp again. At least there was something to look forward to.

To your utter bewilderment, he pulls it out of his thigh holster, of all places. You certainly wouldn’t have checked for it there. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise you, bounty hunting was a dangerous profession.

You don’t move towards him immediately, aware that you couldn’t force him to accept your help. Standing a few meters back, you stare into the t-visor, hoping your expectant look is enough to win him over. After a moment he sighs deeply, the sound loaded with more meaning than some men’s dialogue.

He holds the device out, demonstrating his acquiescence. You take a few steps forward, the distance between you swallowed in seconds. Just as fingertips graze the cool metal of the cauterizer, he tips it back towards himself.

“Just…” he starts, voice pained. “I can’t remove the beskar.”

“We’ve covered this. You’re probably concussed.”

“I’m not con–” his grip loosens at the claim and you snatch the thing right out of his hand. His reflexes are slow. You should really check that wound of his. “Just make it quick.”

“You want me to keep you alive, or you want me to be quick?”

“I want you to hurry the fuck up so I can fly my ship!”

“Hey, don’t yell at me! I’m being helpful!”

“You’re being slow!”

“You’re being a dick!”

Your heart is pounding, indignation flaring through your body at his anger. Misdirected aggression, common with violent, warrior types. Anger is the key emotional response to everything – sadness, fear, confusion. It comes out as red-hot solar flares of rage. You do not care for it.

Taking a steadying breath, you remind yourself that he’s injured, and his culture is dicey about showing in sort of weakness. He is being vulnerable, in his own way, to allow you to help at all. Inner reserve of patience swell, and when you exhale, you feel more centered. 

“I need to wash my hands,” you say out loud, more to yourself than to him. “You got gloves?”

“No.”

“Disinfectant?”

“Refresher.”

“You giving me permission to root around your medicine cabinet, Mandalorian?” you ask cheekily. You wonder if he knows the connotation of such an Inner Rim comment. His silence makes you think he does not.

Retreating into the small refresher, you scoff for a tenth time at the completely irrational design of the toilet. You’d had to pee, the second time he picked you up via bounty puck. You’ve been more comfortable squatting over holes in the ground to take a piss than that mother fucking monstrosity.

Water rushes over your hands, suds disappearing down the drain in seconds as your curiosity takes hold. Flicking the water off, you peek in the shower, the shelves, every little nook of the space. You’d definitely investigated before, but now that you have permission, whether he realized that he’d given it or not, and you feel the need to do another sweep.

Shaving materials, same place as last time, but the razor a bit more worn. Simple soaps tucked into a built-in shelf. It still surprises you, that he would opt for a water shower when he could easily have a sonic installed. Another color of the Mandalorian in which to paint your mental picture.

By the time you find the bottle of disinfectant, your hands have dried and you feel a little better about the chances of causing infection.

He’s barely moved in inch when you return to the open space of the hull. Setting the bottle down next to him, you huff out a breath. Resisting the urge to put your hands on your hips, and in turn your filthy tunic, you take a moment to consider.

“Can I lift it, or does it need to be you?” you ask, cultural sensitivity kicking in, much to the irritation of the medical side of your brain which notes the growing red patch on his side. 

“It’s–” the angry hiss he lets out at twisting too far has you shooting forward. “Just do it.”

He’s not sitting on the crate, just leaning back heavily, legs stretched out in front of him, ostensibly in your way. With measured strides you move even closer, stopping next to his hip, your legs brushing his. It’s by far the closest you two had ever been in your near year acquaintanceship.

Placing the cauterizer on the edge of the crate, your hands reach for the fabric of his tunic. Pinching the epicenter of the bloodied bit, you pull it out and away from his skin. He jeers, head craning back as the material unsticks from the wound.

Once you’re satisfied pulling his shirt up won’t interfere with his injury, you use the other hand to tug the material near the hem firmly, untucking it from his pants. Scared bronze skin comes into view and your mental picture of him changes again.

“Hold this,” you instruct, guiding his opposite hand to hold the bunched shirt just under the durasteel breastplate, revealing most of his abdomen to you.

Grateful, that’s the word you’re looking for. You are grateful that your training means all mental focus is on the ugly gash just under his ribs. And nowhere else. Absolutely no where else.

“Bad?” he asks, trying to crane his helmet down to see, but the wound’s location and his armor make it nearly impossible. He tucks the material of his shirt into his chest plate, hand returning to the lip of the crate with a tight grip. 

“Looks like shrapnel,” you comment, fingers prodding around the wound. “You got anything to dig it out with?”

A few seconds later he is holding out tweezers and you just… you have to ask.

“Why?” it comes out strangled, the laugh bubbling up in your throat. Somewhere in the back of your mind you realize your level of amusement is probably disproportionate to the actual situation. “Cauterizer I get but–”

“You gonna dig that outta me or nah?” his slurred response shouldn’t entertain you. It really, really shouldn’t. It’s a sign of blood loss. You snort a laugh anyway.

“Yeah, yeah I’m getting to it.”

As you take the tweezers, you analyze his position, the wound, and where you’re standing. You readjust slightly, and with gentle hands, take him by the pauldrons. You turn him away from you, giving a full view of the tear in his torso. When you reach forward to work on the wound, his hip is blocking your arm.

“Try not to get too excited,” you mumble. He makes some sort of strangled sound when you slip one leg in between both of his.

You hadn’t woken up today intending to drag an unconscious bounty half a mile and straddle a Mandalorian’s thigh, but here you are. The new position affords the perfect angle to dig out shrapnel, so you try not to think too hard about it.

The work is slow, the processes of retrieving small bits of metal from the wound without pushing other bits farther in is tedious. Your focus zeroes in and nothing else exists but each shining bit retrieved and dropped onto the crate’s lid. When he shakes from holding himself still you realize that your bedside manner needs to kick in right about now.

“First shrapnel wound?” You ask distractedly.

“No.”

“How bad was the other one.”

“Bad.” You’re wracking your brain for another question to ask that will keep him occupied longer than two fucking seconds, but he goes on. “I don’t remember it.”

“If you don’t remember, how do you know how bad it was?”

“The medic told me when I woke.” You nod.

“How much did they take out of you? Because I’m thinking we could make a reasonably sized shot glass from these.” You lift the tweezers, a small bit of coated red metal glinting in the lowlight. 

The laugh he huffs out turns into a pained groan and you grimace at the sound.

“A lot. He… he was surprised I lived.”

“That doesn’t give me much confidence in his abilities as a medic.”

“I think it had more to do with the gaping chest wound.”

“Hmm, maybe. Or maybe Medic Martin needed a refresher course.”

He goes quiet and you continue your work, only half aware of the heaviness that seems to have come over your impromptu patient. You can’t see the contemplative look cross his face, eyes downcast as he decides whether it is a story he wishes to tell. Whether it is a story he wishes to tell you.

“It was the day of the Great Purge,” he says softly, and your entire body freezes in place. “We were attacked in the dead of night, enemy ships in the sky blocking out the moons.”

You need to keep moving, keep attending to his wound. The remaining pieces are countable on one hand, but you are transfixed by his voice. You don’t dare look at him or interrupt.

“I was young, stupid. I didn’t… I didn’t understand what it meant. My brothers and sisters, they fought valiantly. It was not enough.” You give up all pretense and drop your hand to rest next to his hip on the crate.

“The blast threw me across the battlefield. I don’t remember being dragged onto the ship that took the wounded. I woke up six weeks later to find my home had been burned to the ground and my family slaughtered.”

Its suddenly hard to swallow.

The general narrative is nothing you haven't heard before. The war, the Empire, it was barely behind the galaxy. People on nearly every planet held wounds that cut to the bone. Hearing this story though, it felt different. You’ve never heard from a warrior whose life nearly ended on the site of his home turned battlefield.

The story runs through your mind again as his stare holds you in place, even though you won’t meet it. You knew of the Great Purge, had learned of the atrocities committed against his people during the reign of the Empire. It was not unique in broad strokes – Imps land on a planet, planet resists, Imps burn it to the ground.

But the story of Mandalore struck you differently. Death and pain were unfortunately common, but the untold level of disrespect the Empire had shown to their Creed, their culture, was unparalleled. They didn't just burn their planet to the ground – they took their beskar. The sacred metal was fashioned into armor, the helmets all Mandalorian’s were adorned with and never removed. To strip them of their home, their lives, and then their dignity, all for the sake of smelted profits twisted something wrathful in your gut.

You look up, eyes landing on the beskar helm in front of you. An ache blooms between your ribs. What was it like to awaken in a world where your home was gone, family gone, only to later discover the level of contempt your fallen brethren were shown? Stripped of their sacred beskar, bodies left uncovered and disregarded on the soil that was once their home. 

Without warning your mouth opens.

“They slaughtered mine as well,” you snap your mouth shut, shock running through your body. That story had never been told. You didn’t want it told. The Sages never asked, no one ever asked, so you never needed to answer.

You can feel his stare through the beskar, the t-visor pointed directly at you. He doesn’t say anything and you’re at a loss for words.

He nods, head bowing deep, staying down a few moments. You mimic the gesture, an understanding roiling hotly in the small space. A pain only orphans could know pulses between you two. Its stifling.

The burning in your eyes forces you to break the stare. You clear your throat and bounce your gaze to look at anything but him. The pressure on your chest is distracting, but you have a job to do. There was nothing to be done about the Great Purge, but there was one Mandalorian you could assist, and fuck all if you didn’t do it right.

“I… I should,” you gesture weakly with the tweezers.

“Yes.” His voice comes out rough and you shoot a concerned look back to his t-visor. His simple nod compels you to continue. With your focus shifting back to the wound, you miss how his free hand lifts towards you before falling back to his side, clenching into a fist tightly.

You lean back in. It takes a bit of time, to dig the last small pieces of metal out from the gash. The last piece sounds a quiet _plink_ as it hits scarred wood and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“I need to disinfect it before cauterizing,” you warn.

“Do it,” he assures you and with a fairly steady hand, you open the bottle next to the future-shot glass material. Lifting it, the container hovers over the now emptied wound before you tip it over. You almost jump when he lets out another, very manly, yelp. You look up to see he’s turned his head away from you. “Not a word.”

You roll your lips in, trying to smother the smile crawling its way across your face. You’ll take anything to lighten the suffocating heaviness in the air. Settling the bottle back down, fingers reach for the small device next to it. With a single flick, it whirls to life. And then you begin to cauterize.

His skin is warm under your fingers. They pinch the skin together as you lower the electric tip to begin closing the tear. Your stomach rolls as the smell of burnt blood and flesh hits your nose, but you make quick work of it. You’d had a chance to use this kind of device a few years back when a farm hand on the planet you were passing through sliced his arm open. It had been harrowing at the time. You find it even more so now.

“That should do it,” you breathe out, feelings still too close to the surface of your skin. Straightening, you mumble about infection rates and the importance of not twisting too harshly for the next few days. You startle when a gloved hand lands on your hip.

You look down and then back to the man sat before you, whose leg you’re still straddling. Nerves flood your body making you shaky, but trembling hands go unnoticed by both parties. You cock your head in question.

“Thank you,” he says in gentlest tone you’ve ever heard him use. It paints the words into something vivid.

“I… sure,” you stutter, leaning away to shake his hand loose. He tightens his grip instead, keeping you in place. He sits up fully, placing you eye to t-visor and you fall even further into his space. The force of gravity he exerts rendering you helpless but to orbit him. Your eyes widen as he leans in closer and then he… well he fucking headbutts you.

You’re the one yelping this time, pain radiating from where his beskar slams into your poor, defenseless forehead.

“Sorry… fine motor skills are still compromised.”

You pull back on instinct, but his hand slides around your hip to settle on your lower back. He tugs, sliding you further up his thigh, chest inches from his own. You’re frozen in place, the embrace making something in you squirm.

“What were you going for exactly?” You choke out, the accusation softened by nerves and genuine confusion as his helmet glides lazily from side to side against you skin.

He doesn’t respond, just hums deeply. The sound vibrates out, almost a caress where his helm meets your skin. Hands hanging limply at your sides rise gingerly, fingers skimming the material covering his forearms between armored plates.

It’s a form of intimacy you haven’t had in a very long time. You’ve hugged people before… well no, people tend to hug you. But those embraces were normally short, abrupt, and over quickly. This feels different.

It’s unhurried, gentle, and it lingers in the air, mixing with the seriousness of his harrowing words and the joint baring of souls. Well… partially bared. A handful of seconds pass and with little else to do, you look down. It’s a mistake.

The shift is almost immediate.

Your mind has cleared the danger, his wound more or less mended. Medical brain falling dormant, something else roars to life in its place. It’s your often forgotten and tightly corralled lizard brain. You’re hot blooded, very _female,_ lizard brain. Of course the moment your eyes land on bronze skin, it kicks right the fuck in. It’s instinct that drives your eyes to flitter from the wound and take in the rest of his exposed torso.

It’s… well it’s a nice torso. A _very_ nice torso.

You drink in the ridges of his abs, the raised edges of long forgotten wounds healed and scarred over. And then there is the fine line of hair starting at his belly button and trailing down warm skin before disappearing into the waistband of his pants. An irrational desire to follow that path with your hand bubbles up like lava from somewhere deep in your belly. Before you can reign in the urge, your fingers resting on his arm twitch and clench.

It’s enough to jerk you back to reality.

“Right, uh,” you pull back as far as his grip allows, the odd intimacy of his embrace rattling your brain. You offer him the cauterizer back, thrusting it between your bodies like a shield.

He is slow to respond, the hand on your back painting circling with a light pressure against your covered skin. Your breath stutters, not sure how you missed that earlier. Lifting his free hand to accept the proffered device, he keeps his other in place. There’s a moment of silence, your eyes staring at a spot over his shoulder while you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood.

You clear your throat and it must break the spell you’re both under because he drops his hand and you take a large step back.

“You got some gauze I can wrap this with?” He tugs his shirt back into place and a small part of you mourns.

“It’ll be fine.” He stands up too quickly and immediately pitches forward.

“Whoa there,” you gasp out, hands grabbing his arm and waist to keep him steady. “Might want to take it a little slower, huh?”

“I’m–”

“I swear on every kriffing star in the galaxy, if you mutter the word _‘fine’_ one more time, I’ll throw you out the airlock.”

“You wouldn’t,” he says confidently as he regains his balance. You retract your hands and rest them on your hips.

“Oh?”

“You just spent an hour patching me up. Don’t waste the effort… or the disinfectant.”

“I didn’t buy it,” you snort. “I could pour it down the drain, just for fun.”

“Sounds like you need a hobby,” he remarks. Sliding past you on shaky legs, he heads straight for the ladder.

“Hey! You can’t go stealing my lines!”

“Watch me.”

You mutter under your breath but follow him up to the cockpit regardless. In part because the hull is making you claustrophobic, but mostly to make sure he doesn’t kill himself.

You _did_ just spend an hour patching him up after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Y'allllllllllll.  
> I edited and reedited, and arranged and rearranged, and added and subtracted WAY too much for this one. I needed their first real 'moment' to feel right. I'm pretty okay with it. Or I must be because this has been picked apart for a week and I'm over it. 
> 
> Drop me a comment to let me know how I did!
> 
> ALSO: MAY THE 4TH BE WITH YOU.  
> OMFG I'VE NEVER SAID IT BEFORE AND NOW I CAAAAAAN.


End file.
